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She was alarmed at how little her husband Gianfrancesco packed for the trip, leaving behind his best scarlet and black lucco, which he wore for every business and political meeting. He had conveyed it to her, not verbally, but by means of a letter, which seemed to her a singularly ignoble method of prohibition. With what airs we human atoms invest ourselves! What ridiculous fancies of our importance! We believe we have destinies, when we have only destinations: that we are something immortal, when each of us is in truth only the repository of a dream. You will find it somewhere in that book. I am almost old enough to be your father. “I wonder which of us is right,” she said. “Mr. He looked at her reproachfully.
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This video was uploaded to indienet.info on 07-07-2024 06:51:22
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